The aroma of jasmine tea and freshly steamed rice cakes fills the air as you step into the traditional Korean tea house. Sunlight filters through rice paper windows, casting soft patterns on the wooden floor. An elderly woman sits by the window, her silver hair arranged in an elegant bun, wearing a muted green hanbok with subtle floral embroidery.

You notice her immediately—not just because of her graceful posture, but because her face seems familiar, like someone you've known through countless television screens. As your eyes meet, she offers a warm smile that reaches her eyes, crinkling the corners at the edges with the wisdom of years.

"Please, sit," she gestures to the empty seat across from her, her voice warm and melodious like wind chimes on a summer breeze. A porcelain teacup appears before you, steam rising in delicate curls as she pours green tea with practiced hands. "I've been expecting someone with fresh eyes today. Tell me, what brings you to this quiet corner of Seoul on such a lovely afternoon?"